


i know that you are almost in love with me (i can see it in your eyes)

by sweetwinegift



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, idk pierre's a disaster, they're soft and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 12:37:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16305380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwinegift/pseuds/sweetwinegift
Summary: Pierre reaches for Nico’s wrist, tugs at it until Nico is meeting his gaze again. The blue of Nico’s eyes is so disarming that it makes it ridiculously difficult for Pierre to focus on what he wants to say. “You and me?” he says. “Nico, we’re going to play everything together, and we’re going to win it all together, too.”





	i know that you are almost in love with me (i can see it in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> i miss when they actually played tennis together and so this happened.  
> just assume they're speaking french the whole time i guess. ironically, i wrote most of it while skipping my french classes. this is the first fic i've written in years so go easy on me lol.  
> note: significant others/families do not exist because that's just who i am as a person. also, am relatively certain this is fiction.  
> title from 'girl from mars' by ash :)

** i know that you are almost in love with me (i can see it in your eyes) **

It starts in Melbourne, and Pierre wonders if it will ever stop feeling so _new_. Then again, he thinks, it is new- to him, at least. Nico’s done this before, but even he seems nervous before the match, quiet and almost expressionless as a frown just begins to tug at his eyebrows. He’s not as nervous as Pierre, though, who’s so full of a panicked sort of energy that he wonders briefly if throwing up on court would count as a forfeit.

The beginning of the match is a blur, and so are all the easy balls they miss and the ones they can’t even get into play, and by the time they lose, it all feels a bit hazy to Pierre. He and Nico move through the handshake at the net and the agonising trophy ceremony that follows on autopilot, and it doesn’t hit him until later in the locker room that they didn’t just play in a Grand Slam final- they just _lost_ in a Grand Slam final.

It’s an important distinction.

They’re sitting on the bench, touching from their shoulders to their knees, and there’s a kink in Pierre’s neck that stops him looking to the right, and he doesn’t want to stare at their newly empty lockers, so he settles for glancing to the left. He looks over and up at Nico, who’s crying, but Pierre doesn’t think too much of that because he figures Nico probably would’ve been crying no matter what the outcome was. As it is, Pierre’s fighting back tears as well, worrying that if he starts crying he might not stop.

He has an arm around Nico’s waist and ignores the way Nico’s breath hitches when he tightens his grip, fingers pressing against Nico’s hip and feeling the heat and muscle beneath his shirt. It’s an affectionate gesture, or maybe a comforting one, or maybe just whatever Nico needs it to be, because after a few long moments the tears start to slow until they’ve stopped completely. Then Nico’s reciprocating, his own hand reaching out and pressing against Pierre’s thigh, fingers splaying across his knee, and there’s an unfamiliar tug in Pierre’s chest; he ignores that, too.

“We’re winning the next one,” says Pierre, quiet and confident- far more confident than he feels, but the watery smile he gets in response is enough to reassure him that he’s not wrong. Of course they’ll win the next one, and then all the ones after that, too.

They’re too good- too good _together_ \- to only ever lose.

**

The thing is: Pierre thinks he might love Nico, just a little. Well, no, that’s not right. Nico’s his best friend, the man who believes in him maybe more than anyone- at least, more than anyone he’s not related to, but they hardly count. Nico’s the man who took him all the way to a Grand Slam final.

 _Obviously_ Pierre loves him. Who wouldn’t?

The problem, then, isn’t that he loves Nico. It’s that he thinks he’s probably _in love_ with Nico.

Pierre doesn’t have too much experience with this whole having feelings thing, but he’s pretty sure that warm, fluttery sensation in his chest whenever Nico smiles doesn’t really indicate anything even close to platonic. He doesn’t know when it started, and maybe it was an inevitable ramification of the rush that was the Australian Open, but now his stomach clenches whenever they hug after a win and he gets flustered whenever Nico says anything even vaguely complimentary. Don’t even get him started on his heart rate that time he made Nico laugh so hard he cried.

Forget tennis; Pierre’s made sport of making Nico laugh.

It’s not as much of a distraction as he’d thought it might be. Pierre’s fairly good at ignoring it when he needs to; if sometimes they’re practicing and he’s too busy staring at the muscle in Nico’s arms or the graceful movement of his long legs as he slides across the court- and, okay, his ass, because Pierre’s no saint- it’s alright because circumstance has made him really very good at blocking everything out during their matches.

Mostly. He’ll never admit it, but the quick affectionate displays after particularly big points still rattle him a little more than they should.

This, though? This is decidedly _too much_.

They’re in New York and halfway through a practice- an important one, really, considering they’re playing in the final tomorrow- and it’s indecently hot, and about a minute ago Nico took his shirt off. And, okay, it’s not like Pierre’s never seen Nico shirtless before, but would it have killed Nico to give him a little _warning_?

Pierre had just been minding his own business at the baseline, hitting serve after serve and feeling a little swell of pride when each one landed exactly where he’d wanted them to, and then he’d turned to make some joking remark about how he’s always carrying the team. He hadn’t been able to say anything, though, because Nico was sitting on the bench and blinking into the sun with his abs just… there. Out. On display.

Nico grins at him, and there’s that fluttery feeling again.

He pats the bench next to him, calls out for Pierre to come over, and of course Pierre does because he thinks Nico could probably ask him to kill a man and he’d still say yes. Well, maybe not, but Pierre really hopes Nico doesn’t make him test his morals in such a manner. He can just picture it happening now: “Pierre,” Nico would say easily, “Would you mind axe-murdering Murray and Peers tonight?” and Pierre would smile and say, “No problem!” and then he’d show up in Murray and Peers’ rooms and hack off their heads.

Admittedly, such an action would make tomorrow’s final a hell of a lot easier, but would probably also land them in prison because surely he and Nico would be the prime suspects to their would-be opponents’ sticky end.

It takes Pierre a while to process all this, and he’s still distracted by Nico being half naked, so he’s probably been sitting down for about five years by the time Nico breaks the silence. “Your serve is good,” he says. “Doesn’t need practice.”

Pierre’s heart starts doing cartwheels inside his chest, and he’s about to say something flippant and cool when he realises Nico isn’t finished. “Your volleys, though,” he continues. “They need work.”

It’s hardly an ill-intended criticism- his volleys _do_ need work- but Pierre does his best to look affronted regardless, which really is quite the effort considering he’s still trying not to drool over Nico’s bare chest.

Their coaches are both here, but they’d stepped back a while ago when they figured whatever Pierre and Nico are doing is clearly working, and even though they’re only a few feet away, they don’t seem at all interested in this conversation. It’s a shame; surely Pierre could get one of them on his side, get them to tell Nico that Pierre’s volleys aren’t _that_ bad.

“ _You_ need to work on your serve,” retorts Pierre after a moment of carefully crafted moping.

Nico’s arm freezes in the motion of bringing a water bottle that could be either his or Pierre’s to his lips. He snorts. “Touché,” he says. “But if we get your volleys working it might balance out all my double faults.” He moves again to drink.

Pierre doesn’t respond at first because he’s too busy watching Nico’s throat move as he swallows, and dealing with the acute sense of _wanting_ that hits him. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice thick. “We’ll make me the king of the net, and you can just relax while I win you the US Open.”

The answering laugh from Nico, loud and uncontrolled, is like a sort of siren call to Pierre; he leans in without even meaning to, and feels it all over his body when their shoulders brush. The feel of Nico’s bare skin is too much, even through the fabric of Pierre’s sleeve. Pierre makes a note to himself: invest in a bodysuit for Nico, cover him from head to toe.

Then again, maybe not. If it were as hot as today is, Nico might just take the whole thing off, and then where would Pierre be? Going into heart failure, probably. The entire Australian swing would be a _disaster_.

Nico pats Pierre’s cheek, and Pierre just knows he’s blushing under the attention. “Maybe not,” says Nico. “Don’t want to give you that kind of satisfaction. Your head would get far too big.”

Pierre wonders idly if Nico is ever going to give him _any_ kind of satisfaction, but that’s hardly a line of conversation he can pursue, so he just reaches for his racquet and says, “Okay. We’ll practice my volleys.”

**

They’ve been ordering room service for most of the tournament, but they go to a restaurant that night since they should probably get out at least once during the fortnight, and Nico figures they won’t be in the mood for it if they lose tomorrow.

Pierre doesn’t think they’ll lose. He has a _feeling_ , one he didn’t have all those months ago in Melbourne. Really, though, he has a lot of feelings he didn’t have back in Melbourne and is having trouble unpacking all of them, and it’s pretty alarming that this particular one isn’t even the strongest.

They’re sitting across from each other in a corner booth at some restaurant downtown, two glasses of wine and a bread basket between them. Nico wants to talk about Winston-Salem. Pierre wants to talk about anything that _isn’t_ Winston-Salem.

Naturally, Nico gets his way. He always does.

“You _are_ going to start winning,” he’s saying earnestly, leaning across the table a little. He looks irritatingly serious.

Pierre is only partially paying attention, not making eye contact as he opts instead to study the label on the wine bottle. It’s fruity, apparently. He wouldn’t know; his throat is so tight he feels like he might choke if he so much as tries to swallow anything. This still isn’t a conversation he wants to be having, so he brushes it off, tries to make a joke of it. “Sure,” he says. “I’m going to be winning a lot. With _you_ \- tomorrow, for instance.” He tries to flash Nico a grin, but the muscles in his face don’t seem to want to cooperate. It feels more like a pained grimace.

Nico shoots him a _look_. Like he knows exactly what Pierre’s thinking and exactly how he’s feeling, like he always does. Inconvenient, that. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he says, nudging the bread basket closer to Pierre. “You’ve got more talent in your left foot than half of the tour combined.”

The room feels too hot all of a sudden, but Pierre’s next attempt at a smile feels a little more genuine. “Not you, though,” he says, obediently taking a bit of bread and tearing it absently into smaller pieces. “There’s still _so much_ for you to teach me, remember?”

Nico’s wide mouth tugs upward into a smile. “Well, yeah,” he says. “But I’m the master here, Pierre. It’s hardly a fair comparison.”

Pierre likes it when Nico says his name, likes the way it rolls off his tongue.

Fucking hell; maybe he should be drinking. Playing with a hangover would surely be worth it if he could stop obsessing over every little thing Nico does, just for a few hours. Before the night’s out he’ll probably be waxing poetic about Nico’s fork-holding technique.

It’s not Pierre’s fault. Nico just looks _really_ good in this place’s strategically dimmed lighting. This entire situation has been carefully engineered to give Pierre a heart attack. He wonders vaguely if it’s karmic retribution for how much he teased Nico when they first started playing together, for how much he still does.

Nico’s probably in on it, the bastard. He raises his glass, gesturing for Pierre to do the same. “To New York,” he says, touching his glass lightly to Pierre’s before taking a drink.

Pierre doesn’t want to jinx it, but he’s feeling confident, and before he can stop himself he adds, “To winning.”

Nico just smiles and drinks again.

**

Nico must be psychic or something, because they’d spent _hours_ working on Pierre’s volleys and suddenly it’s match point and they’re both at the net. It’s dangerous territory, but Pierre barely even registers as the ball speeds right to his racquet, doesn’t even have time to think about where he wants to hit it back, and then it’s bouncing between Murray and Peers and they’ve _won_.

There’s a split second where the crowd starts to scream, and Pierre can’t believe it, but then he’s turning to Nico, who’s flat on his back with his hands covering his face. Maybe he can’t believe it either.

Pierre doesn’t stop to think about what he’s doing, just starts to move and a moment later he’s hovering above Nico. He’s very conscious of not letting them touch, the exhausted muscles in his arms straining with the effort of not collapsing on top of Nico, but then Nico’s arms are around him and he thinks, _fuck it_.

They’ve just won a Grand Slam; Pierre can be as affectionate as he wants. Nico lets himself be pulled up, and then his arms are tight around Pierre, his face pressing into Pierre’s shoulder. He drops a light, barely there kiss on the side of Pierre’s neck, only just out of the way of his collar, and Pierre almost forgets how to breathe.

“Told you my net skills would win you the US Open,” murmurs Pierre, who knows he needs to say _something_ if he doesn’t want to die from all this longing. His own mouth brushes against Nico’s ear as he says it, but somehow he’s still the one holding back a shiver, which hardly seems fair.

Nico’s laughing, low and hoarse, and Pierre can feel the vibrations all over his body. There’s a quick tightening of the embrace, and then Nico breaks away so they can get back to where Murray and Peers are waiting at the net.

The crowd still hasn’t stopped cheering and Nico’s looking like he might never stop smiling, and Pierre’s so dizzy from it all that he can’t focus on anything that follows; not the trophy ceremony or the interviews or all the dozens of congratulations.

Really, the only thing at all that seems to make sense over the next few hours is the warm, steady presence of Nico at his side.

**

They head back to Melbourne as the sixth seeds and determined to get revenge for the 2015 final. It’s fitting, then, that they lose in the second round. Pierre supposes the commentators probably talk about how the loss is a result of their own hubris, of he and Nico being too confident after only one good year. He doubts anyone has anything to say about how maybe Carreño-Busta and Andújar just played really, really well.

Well. _C’est la vie_ , and all that.

The plan, originally, had been to go out for Nico’s birthday, but Nico’s too upset for that and Pierre isn’t feeling it either, so instead they’re sitting on the couch in Nico’s room with their feet kicked up on the coffee table and flicking through channels on the television, avoiding the sports channel at all costs.

There’s a beer in Pierre’s hand, but he’s distracted as he absently picks at the label. Nico’s only thirty-four now, but it still feels like there’s an eternity between them. It’s a good thing Pierre’s always had a healthy ego- well, Nico calls it inflated, but Pierre’s mostly sure that’s a joke- or the knowledge that Nico’s just _better_ than he is might really be getting him down.

He thinks about how they spent most of the off-season together and how they’re about to be apart for separate tournaments in February. Nico’s playing Rotterdam with Pospisil, which is hardly a bad choice but Pierre- who’s going to be playing a Challenger in Italy, which seems like it might as well be galaxies away- can’t help the stab of jealousy he feels at the thought.

“Indian Wells,” says Nico suddenly, breaking Pierre out of his own thoughts, which is probably for the best.

Pierre hums around the rim of the beer bottle as he finally goes to take a sip, and grimaces; it’s gone warm. He puts it down, shifts on the couch to face Nico and is gratified to find that Nico is already looking at him. “What about it?”

Nico switches off the television, so Pierre figures this must be a _serious conversation_. “Are we playing it?”

Indian Wells isn’t until March, and Pierre shrugs. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t we?” He’d assumed it was a given.

Settling back against the cushions and looking almost relaxed for the first time all week, Nico glances away. “I don’t know,” he says. “We haven’t talked about it, is all.”

It hits Pierre suddenly that Nico might be as upset about the few weeks they’re splitting for as Pierre is. It also hits Pierre that the brief split is mostly his own doing; _he’s_ the one who wants to try his luck with the Challengers, build his singles ranking up to remind himself he’s not _just_ good as a doubles player. Nico is sort of just going with it.

Pierre reaches for Nico’s wrist, tugs at it until Nico is meeting his gaze again. The blue of Nico’s eyes is so disarming that it makes it ridiculously difficult for Pierre to focus on what he wants to say. “You and me?” he says. “Nico, we’re going to play _everything_ together, and we’re going to win it all together, too.”

Nico nods, smiles. He looks like he’s about to say something, but those blue eyes are really getting to Pierre and honestly, he can’t help himself; still clasping Nico’s wrist in one hand, he uses the other to reach up and brush his thumb lightly across Nico’s cheek before closing the gap between them and, like he’s been wanting to do for the past year, finally presses their lips together.

A lot of things seem to happen at once, then, and Pierre’s so overwhelmed he feels like he might just die right there. Nico makes a small, gasping sound of surprise that Pierre feels everywhere, but he doesn’t pull away and it’s Pierre who’s helplessly whining into Nico’s mouth as it opens beneath his.

Pierre almost loses it completely at the first brush of Nico’s tongue in his mouth, folding his knees beneath him and leaning in even further until he might as well be sitting in Nico’s lap. He moves the hand that’s still resting on Nico’s cheek to hesitantly knot his fingers in Nico’s hair instead; he tugs, and is rewarded with a low groan from Nico.

He smiles smugly into the kiss. Winning the US Open? That was nothing. Making Nico moan is easily Pierre’s greatest achievement.

One of Nico’s hands curls around Pierre’s hip, fingers sliding beneath his shirt to rest against the warm skin there. He applies just enough pressure to pull Pierre even closer, and this time it’s Pierre moaning. Pierre knows he sounds desperate, but he doesn’t _care_. He’s spent a year wanting Nico in his arms and now he has him there and-

And the hotel phone rings.

Pierre pulls back, reluctantly, and tries to catch his breath as Nico reaches behind the arm of the couch and fumbles for the phone. He has a quick conversation with reception, and Pierre sits there thinking he’s just fucked everything up. They can’t be _making out on couches_ ; they’re partners, a team, and they’ve got shit to do together that doesn’t involve messing around and ruining everything they’ve been building.

It’s fortunate, he thinks, that they decided against sharing a suite; he’d been a little put out at the time, but he knows they both need their own space, and this would’ve been _really_ awkward if their beds were only a few feet apart.

“Someone told them it’s my birthday,” says Nico after he hangs up. “They’re sending up a cake.”

Pierre nods, but he’s already getting up and reaching for the bag he’d brought the beers over in. “Think I’m calling it a night,” he says, wincing as he catches sight of the time; it’s not even nine yet. He couldn’t be more transparent if he tried, so he just flashes Nico a quick smile. “Happy birthday,” he says, for about the tenth time that day, and slips out of the room without waiting for Nico’s response.

They don’t talk about it.

**

It’s pretty pathetic, Pierre thinks, that he’s bulldozing his way through Bergamo and all he’s thinking about is how Nico is doing the same with Pospisil in Rotterdam. He wins the final in straight sets, and is constantly refreshing his phone until it tells him that Nico and Pospisil did the same.

Good for them. He’s happy for them both, he really is, but he’s self-aware enough to admit that he _is_ a little peeved about Nico winning a title without him. There’s insecurity there, too, just a little seed of doubt in the back of his mind that maybe Pospisil is better than Pierre is, and Nico will want to play with him instead from now on.

They’ve only been playing together for a little over a year, so the thought shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

Pierre’s out at a club and already a few drinks deep when he gets a text from Nico. It’s short, just a congratulatory message, but the assertion at the end that Nico’s _proud_ of him makes his heart swell enough to counter the stinging jealousy at the accompanying picture of Nico and Pospisil out celebrating themselves.

Grinning, he takes a quick picture of himself holding up the almost alarmingly bright cocktail someone had just handed him. He sends the picture off along with a hasty caption- _félicitations, Nico!_ \- and slips his phone into his back pocket, determined to enjoy himself.

He can’t help it, though, when he feels the phone vibrate almost a half hour later. It’s probably not even Nico, he tells himself, but he pulls it out anyway, and of course it’s Nico. Who else would be texting him at two in the morning?

It’s another quick message telling him to enjoy himself, but it ends with a fucking _heart emoji_ and Pierre doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. He doesn’t do either, settling for a deep sigh; he should’ve played Rotterdam.

He sends a heart emoji back, then switches his phone off before he can do something really stupid like call Nico and tell him to ditch Pospisil in Rotterdam and get his ass over to Italy _now_.

Pierre’s pretty good at making a fool of himself where Nico’s concerned, but even he knows that would be decidedly too much.

**

It feels like years before Pierre’s in California, before he’s standing in the lobby of some hotel in Indian Wells and squinting at his phone in the glare of the harsh lighting. A mixture of nerves and excitement at the prospect of seeing Nico again have him practically bouncing. Nico’s been here for a few days already, and a valet took Pierre’s bags while he checked in, so finding Nico is really all that’s left for him to do.

Well, maybe shower. He was just on a spectacularly long flight.

Pierre’s phone rings, but it isn’t Nico. It’s someone from the tournament wanting to know if his flight has landed yet, and would he and Nico be available for a pre-tournament press conference that afternoon? He tells them that’s fine, that they can be around by the end of the hour, even though half the afternoon has already passed and he still hasn’t found Nico.

After waiting a few more minutes for a message from Nico that doesn’t come, he gives up and reluctantly heads to the elevator, figuring he’s still got time for a quick shower before he has to collect Nico and get them over to the tournament site for press duties.

It’s just his luck that he’s barely been in the shower long enough to wet his hair when there’s a knock at the door, and he knows it’s Nico. He shuts off the water and wraps one of the hotel’s indulgently fluffy towels around his waist; it’ll be nice to be the shirtless one for once, nice to give Nico a taste of his own medicine.

Then again, Nico is a lot more evolved than Pierre is. He probably wouldn’t even blink if Pierre took off all his clothes and started singing show tunes. Which Pierre isn’t going to do, obviously, but the point is, if Nico did that? Pierre would come on the spot, maybe even without the show tunes.

Pierre shakes any images of a naked Nico out of his mind before yanking open the door. He barely even has the chance to say hello- let alone mention that they have a little over a half hour before they have to be in an interview- before Nico is stepping inside, tugging at Pierre’s wrists until he can spin him around and push him back against the door as it swings shut.

The door closes with a click, and then Nico is everywhere; he presses his entire body tightly against the length of Pierre’s, dropping hot, wet kisses along Pierre’s jaw and neck. Okay, Pierre thinks, _this_ is happening, but then Nico’s warm hands are sliding up his arms and across his shoulders and he isn’t thinking anything at all.

Nico stops for a minute, pulls back just a bit and smiles at the protesting groan that it draws from Pierre. Those blue eyes are practically sparkling. “Missed you,” he says, laughing a little as Pierre rolls up onto his toes and tilts his head back.

Yeah. Pierre might be a little desperate, but Nico doesn’t seem to mind; he _finally_ kisses Pierre’s mouth, tangling their tongues together almost immediately as one of his hands makes a mess of Pierre’s hair. The other reaches down and grips Pierre’s hip almost painfully, pulling their lower halves even closer together.

Pierre is _really_ glad to know that he’s not the only one getting so hard so embarrassingly quickly, but it only takes a second for the feeling to be overpowered because _holy shit._ Nico’s clothes and Pierre’s towel are all that’s separating them, and all Pierre has to do is-

Nothing, apparently, because the hand at Pierre’s hip is suddenly snaking between them. Nico hesitates, his hand hovering over the knot of the towel, the pads of his fingers lightly brushing against Pierre’s abdomen. There’s a question in his eyes, which Pierre thinks is pretty stupid because _as if_ Nico doesn’t know exactly how he feels about all of this, but he still answers it; moves one of his hands down from Nico’s chest, squeezes Nico’s fingers with his own for a minute before tugging at the towel until it falls away.

Nico makes a sort of choking sound.

He drops to his knees, slowly, stopping at various intervals to press his mouth against Pierre’s chest and torso, kissing each of Pierre’s hipbones when his knees finally hit the floor. One of his hands runs erratically along Pierre’s left thigh, finally settling on squeezing just above his knee. The other hand doesn’t take so much time, closing determinedly around the base of Pierre’s cock, thumb swiping gently at the tip. Seconds later- with no warning whatsoever, which Pierre thinks is totally unfair of him- his mouth is joining in, swallowing as much of Pierre as he can in one go.

Pierre swears, knees almost giving out completely as his hips jerk of their own accord. Nico, the bastard, actually laughs- which, okay, is pretty impressive given that he currently has a mouthful of cock, but that’s hardly the point- and the hand at Pierre’s knee moves up to rest against his hip, lightly holding him in place.

Nico’s mouth tightens around him as his head moves up and down, and Pierre knows he isn’t going to last long; he tilts his head back to rest it against the door, squeezes his eyes shut as he lets a hand move down to tangle his fingers in Nico’s hair. His nails scrape lightly against Nico’s scalp as he knots and un-knots his fingers, desperate for something to do that might distract him enough to stop him coming right then.

It’s a noble venture, but one that works for only a few minutes until Pierre, in a moment of embarrassing tenderness he’ll probably deny later, moves his other hand to where Nico is still holding his hip. His fingers pull tentatively at Nico’s until Nico obediently lifts his hand and Pierre is able to link their fingers, clasping Nico’s hand firmly in his own.

Sliding his gaze up Pierre’s body, eyes a little wide at the gesture, Nico moans around Pierre’s cock. That’s what does it; it draws an equally helpless groan from Pierre, and he lets out a quick warning before he comes in Nico’s mouth.

Pierre’s entire body goes slack and he keeps himself propped against the door for fear of collapsing entirely.

For his part, Nico just wipes at his mouth and grins wickedly up at him.

“That was- _fuck_ , Nico,” is all Pierre manages to say. He does _try_ , if a little half-heartedly, to articulate some more, but he probably couldn’t even if he really wanted to, because now that he’s got his senses back he remembers where they are and what they’re supposed to be doing. “Shit. We’re meant to be over at the tournament doing an interview.” He glances at the clock. “In twenty minutes.”

Nico swears.

They don’t talk about this, either, but that doesn’t stop them doing it again.

**

If the whole world didn’t already know how mad Pierre is about Nico, he figures that by the end of the week they’ve surely caught on.

It’s embarrassing how desperate for Nico’s attention he is, flying through their matches less because he really wants the title- which he _does_ , so this is really saying something- and more because he wants Nico to smile at him, to squeeze his arm in praise after every good point he wins and to hug him tight after they close out each match.

They won the US Open because Pierre wanted Nico, and they win Indian Wells because Pierre wants Nico to want him. All evidence, of course, suggests Nico already does want Pierre, but still, he’s not taking any chances.

Beating Pospisil in the final is truly satisfying. This is probably the best birthday week Pierre’s ever had.

The press conference after they win, though, is agonising. Pierre, as usual, is the one doing all the talking while Nico, as usual, is the one doing all the distracting; he sits there fidgeting, drawing all of Pierre’s attention and then making it even worse by stretching an arm out along the back of Pierre’s chair, teasingly rubbing at Pierre’s back and shoulders, laughing at Pierre whenever he stumbles over his answers.

It’s the understatement of the century when Pierre tells the room that he and Nico are having a _close relationship_. He can’t even say it with a straight face.

No one’s really surprised that they win Indian Wells, but Pierre bets they’d be surprised about the ensuing celebration; they end the night like they have every other night this week, rolling around in the soft sheets of Pierre’s bed.

Pierre’s lying on his stomach between Nico’s thighs, both of his hands rubbing along them as his mouth moves wetly up and down Nico’s cock. The sounds Nico’s making are driving him a little wild and making it incredibly hard to concentrate on this _very important task_ , but he has a brilliant idea. He lifts up a little, tongue swirling around Nico’s tip before he pulls off completely.

It takes Nico a moment to realise there’s no longer a mouth around his cock. He pushes up onto his elbows, glares down his body at Pierre. “Don’t _stop_ ,” he hisses.

Pierre laughs; Nico’s cute when he’s annoyed. He’s spent the past week less focused on the tennis and more focused on learning everything that makes Nico crazy, and he’s thankful for it now, dipping his head to kiss the tender crease of skin between Nico’s groin and upper thigh. He bites down lightly and then, while Nico is busy letting out a string of distracted obscenities, he crawls back up the length of Nico’s body, tangles his hands in the sheets by Nico’s head.

Once Nico is done with his swearing, his eyes open into Pierre’s, and Pierre smiles. He leans down and takes Nico’s mouth in a hot, desperate kiss, groaning when one of Nico’s knees rises a little and presses against the bulge in his shorts. Pulling back, he kisses along Nico’s jaw and lets his mouth tug lightly at his earlobe.

“I think you should fuck me,” he says, in a very matter-of-fact sort of way, and he’s pretty proud of himself for managing to sound like he won’t probably _die_ if Nico says no, which is almost certainly the case.

Then again, why would Nico say no?

Nico makes a strangled, throaty sort of sound. He arches his back off the bed to kiss Pierre again. “You’re sure?” he says a moment later, hand sliding beneath Pierre’s waistband and giving his cock a few quick tugs.

Sure that they won’t even get to the fucking part if Nico keeps that up, Pierre rolls off onto his back and fumbles around in the bedside table until his hand closes around the lube and a condom he’d stashed in there a few nights ago. Triumphant, he rolls onto his side and drops them next to Nico’s head, who is somehow managing to look both amused and a little stunned.

“You’re very prepared,” he says, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Pierre nods. “Yes,” he agrees easily, not having it in him to be embarrassed by how badly he wants this.

The small smile playing at Nico’s lips widens into a grin so beautiful that Pierre almost forgets how to breathe. Nico rolls onto Pierre, his hips settling between Pierre’s thighs as their mouths meet again in another kiss, lazy and uncontrolled as their tongues roam _everywhere_.

It’s truly unfathomable to Pierre that they went so long without this.

Nico’s still kissing him as his hands move down between them, pulling impatiently at Pierre’s shorts. “Off,” he murmurs against Pierre’s mouth, but his voice is lost against the moan spilling from Pierre’s lips. Pierre obediently lifts his hips to help Nico tug off his shorts and underwear, hissing as Nico’s fist closes around his cock and gives it a few jerky, uncoordinated pumps.

Pierre breaks the kiss only because he doesn’t want to die of oxygen deprivation before he gets Nico inside him.

“Please,” he says, bucking into Nico’s hand. He reaches for the lube, shoves it against Nico’s chest as he repeats himself. “ _Please,_ Nico.” He has the sneaking suspicion that Nico might be laughing at him, but he’s way too far gone to care. Nico can do whatever he wants, so long as he fucks him first.

Nico is remarkably compliant as he takes the lube from Pierre and coats a few fingers with it. He moves down Pierre’s body a little to press kisses against his warm stomach, his dry hand manoeuvring Pierre’s knees until Pierre gets the hint and bends them up off the bed. As soon as he does so, one of Nico’s fingers finally, _finally_ ghosts over exactly where Pierre wants it. It just barely brushes against him, but Pierre swears and lifts his hips; when he does so, Nico pushes in, just a little, and Pierre swears again.

This truly might kill him. Pierre doesn’t mind; he can’t think of a better way to go.

Working with the one finger for a while, Nico continues dropping kisses everywhere he can reach, stopping occasionally to nip playfully at Pierre’s neck. His free hand still works lazily at Pierre’s cock, and Pierre’s already close to incoherent by the time he adds a second finger. He scissors them, stretching Pierre out, and Pierre lets out a string of unintelligible nonsense.

Once a third finger is pushed in, Pierre really thinks he might be losing it. Both of his hands have been helplessly clutching at the sheets, and he moves one down so he can lightly wrap his fingers around Nico’s wrist.

Nico pauses, glances up at him questioningly. “Still sure?” he asks, knowing what Pierre means with his wordless gesture, and he reaches for the condom. He’s already fumbling to open the packet when Pierre nods shakily. He shakes Pierre’s hand off and pulls his fingers back, moving up Pierre’s body as he slides the condom over his own cock.

Pierre’s right there with him, having just enough functioning brain cells left to squeeze lube messily along Nico’s cock. He can’t help giving it a few jerks, and smiles a little as Nico’s head falls onto his shoulder. Nico lets out a slight moan before kissing and then biting at Pierre’s collarbone. Pierre moves one of his legs, hooking it around Nico’s lower back; Nico gets the hint, moves himself into position, and they both groan as he pushes inside. He moves slowly but evenly until he bottoms out, and Pierre knows he’s shaking a little, which is embarrassing- honestly, it’s not like he’s never done this before- but this is _Nico_ so it’s hardly surprising.

There’s a moment or two where the only noise in the room is their breaths mingling together, heavy and ragged. Nico holds still until Pierre’s leg tightens around his waist, silently begging him to move, and when he does Pierre’s begging gets a lot more vocal.

He’s wanted this, _needed_ this, for so long that he knows it’s not going to last as long as he wants it to, but he doesn’t care. His arms curl around Nico’s neck and he drags his nails across Nico’s shoulders and back desperately as he lifts his hips a little to meet Nico’s thrusts. At some point, one of his hands slides down Nico’s arm until he can tangle their fingers together so tightly it almost hurts.

Nico leans down to kiss Pierre, the movements of their tongues messy and uncontrolled but still really, _really_ good. His free hand moves between them again, resuming its work on Pierre’s cock, and so of course it’s Pierre who cries out first, biting Nico’s lip as he makes a mess of both of them, but it’s okay because Nico’s the same just a few thrusts later.

There’s a long moment before Nico rolls off Pierre and onto his back, still working at catching his breath. Pierre could make a joke about Nico being old and out of shape, but he doesn’t because, well, he’s just as bad.

“Fuck,” says Nico once he’s presumably restored the flow of oxygen into his lungs. “That was...”

He trails off, and Pierre barks out a laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That really _was_.” He rolls onto his side so he can leave a trail of kisses along Nico’s collarbone and neck, already wondering how long he’ll have to wait before they can do that again. Probably not whenever they’ve got matches coming up; he feels like he might not be able to move for the next month or so.

Nico tilts his head and kisses him, and Pierre digresses; this is _definitely_ the best birthday week he’s ever had.

**

As it turns out, frequent and phenomenally good sex is really good for one’s tennis. They keep winning big after Indian Wells, first in Miami and then again in Monte Carlo- where they play Murray in the final, who must be beyond sick of them by now.

Pierre’s not sure anyone’s shocked when they get the biggest win of all at Wimbledon; he certainly isn’t.

The thunderous cheers from the crowd barely register in Pierre’s mind as he pulls Nico into his arms. Nico buries his head in Pierre’s shoulder, and Pierre feels the hot tears against his own skin as Nico murmurs into his ear, “I love you.”

Pierre chokes a little on his own spit, and then laughs as he tightens his grip on Nico. “Of course you do,” he whispers back. “I’ve won you _two_ Grand Slams now.” He’s high on the sound of Nico’s answering wet laughter as he adds, “Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts are always appreciated :)  
> 


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